Exchange Student
by Moriwen1
Summary: In which T'Pring attends Starfleet Academy. (A series of shorts.)
1. Paving Stones

Most new cadets fly direct into Starfleet Academy. The spaceport there is sleek and sterile and efficient, bustling with a hive of grinning young men and women from across the galaxy. It lets out immediately into the student union, which is politely interethnic, decorated with the most inoffensive art from dozens of cultures. The place is bland as homogenized milk, the people a thousand alien molecules passing through the smooth stainless steel and glass of the Academy.

T'Pring books a rickety shuttle with a third-class spaceline, destination Germany. She is the only Vulcan on board; the rest of the passengers are human, tourists, vacationers, their alien sweat-smell acrid on the air. Watching the school group across the aisle from her, T'Pring observes the children squirming in their seats, flipping through glossy-paged magazines, poking and prodding each other in some sort of play-fight.

Then they disembark, and T'Pring retrieves her single regulation suitcase and walks through the moonlit streets of Dresden.

Underfoot, the rain-washed paving stones refract light in a muted rainbow of colors. This is probably not, T'Pring concludes, their purpose; before hovercars came into widespread usage, they would have provided support and traction for ground-bound locomotion. Nevertheless, the effect is aesthetically pleasing.

The sky is marked out in gradations of blue, whitish-blue where city lights swallow the stars, dark blue that is massed clouds. Stone arches, vaulting pinnacles, balconies of wrought iron: the construction of each must have been chosen with an eye to form, but with no hindrance to function. Someone has scrawled their initials across the long mural of horses and their armored riders, and behind a marble pillar, a dustbin lies tumbled on its side, pooling water.

The hotel T'Pring approaches is a hybrid sort of a building. Parts of it are visibly weather-worn, its skeleton the half-defunct remains of a structure from an age gone by. The rest, erupting from chipped stone and flaking plaster, is an extrusion of shining metal and tinted plexiglass, patchworking the battered building into a coherent whole. T'Pring had scrolled through six pages of onion domes and skyscrapers to find this place, buried in the depths of the hotel listings.

First the doorman, and then the clerk at the front desk, greets her in German. T'Pring recognizes both the inherent value of language preservation and its role in cultural diversity, but she finds the insistent usage to be inefficient in this context. Surely the hotel managers are aware that most visitors will not be natives of the region, and consequently are unlikely to be fluent in the local language.

"I have a room booked under the name of T'Pring," she tells the clerk in Standard.

His eyes running over a datapad, the man tugs at one pierced earlobe, then types in a search. "Nothing under that name," he tells her. "You sure you're in the right place? Or maybe it's under another name?"

"I am certain," T'Pring assures him. "Are you confident in your ability to operate the database?"

The man gives half a laugh at that, short and sudden. "Yeah, yeah I am," he says, but types in another search, belying his words. "Sorry, there's definitely nothing open now, all our rooms are actually full. Want me to phone somewhere else for you?"

"That will not be necessary." T'Pring picks up her suitcase, mentally running over the airport schedule. A plane will depart in less than an hour, and will likely have empty seats, due to the lateness of the hour. Rest can be postponed until she reaches the dormitory without serious detriment to her health. "I do, however, recommend that you review your booking system, as it appears to be malfunctioning."

"Sure, lady, I'll get right on that. Want me to call you a taxi?"

"That will not be necessary," T'Pring says again, and walks out of the hotel lobby into the cold night air.


	2. Good Fences

"I'm gonna be having a lot of people over," Gaila announces, as she strains to carry her luggage into the shared room. "That gonna be a problem?"

"People?" repeats T'Pring. "Clarify."

"Boys, girls, all the _other_ kinds they have here, seriously, it's fantastic, infinite diversity in infinite combinations, that's a Vulcan thing, right? It's awesome, anyway, the diversity that is, and I'm looking to diversify my assets, if you know what I mean." Gaila does something with her eyebrows which is presumably intended to be expressive.

"You are exhibiting an unusual density of euphemism," T'Pring observes. "Does this indicate that you are attempting to communicate about a taboo subject?"

"Yeah, _sex_ ," Gaila says, drawing out the word and hissing the sibilants behind her teeth. "Is it going to be a problem or not? Because, like, it's not like there's not _other_ places for sex, but those come with their own problems. Like librarians. Librarians suck. Unless they're hot librarians. Then they _literally_ suck, get me?"

T'Pring takes a moment to sort through the idiolect. When she understands, she reprimands Gaila, "You should not assume that a Vulcan shares Human taboos. It is of no concern to me with what frequency you engage in sexual activity, so long as it does not affect the peace or hygiene of my study environment."

" _Hygiene-_ " Gaila exclaims at a high pitch, then cuts off sharply. When she resumes, it is with a more modulated tone. "Look, no, I passed Cultural Sensitivity 101 before I transferred, there's a reason I'm in the honors dorm, OK? But, like, it's not going to be all Orions. The sex. With. Don't Vulcans have a thing about that?"

"About...sex with Orions?" T'Pring clarifies, since Gaila seems determined to treat Standard like an inflected language.

"About _interspecies sex_." Gaila is unpacking rapidly with both hands as she speaks, her back half to T'Pring. T'Pring, observing Earth-standard norms with regard to eye contact, circles to face Gaila before replying.

"I do not endorse the common Vulcan attitude with regard to interspecies breeding," T'Pring tells Gaila, "and as such retain my previously stated neutral attitude towards your sexual activities. That desk is mine and as such is a proper location for neither your ceramic animals nor any potential future sexual activity."

"There's, uh," Gaila says, "there's not going to be any breeding going on. I hope."

T'Pring hopes so as well. Their dorm does not permit pets.


	3. A Very Vulcan Christmas

T'Pring is conducting preliminary tests on experimental thermoregulatory materials. An instructor in the chemical engineering lab has requested that she expose the protective clothing to extremal temperature and climate conditions, and evaluate its performance by multiple metrics. No course credit was offered in return for the voluntary time investment, but the Academy schedule has been reduced in recognition of multiple Terran cultural holidays, and as a result T'Pring has sufficient time that she can invest it for no short-term profit but likely long-term returns.

Ice crystals have formed on the bare branches of the deciduous shade trees that line the walkway, and the boughs bend deeply under the weight. Beneath, snow drifts map out the wind patterns, and muddied footprints carve out a bell curve of random deviations from a straight-line path.

T-Pring considers a mental reference to the Drunkard's Walk, but finds it superfluous.

Poor-quality sound recordings of popular Christmas music play from inside shops, floating out the open doors on a blast of heated air which provides welcome, if momentary, relief from the weather. On the corner, a young woman picks out simple harmonies on a stringed instrument, crooning along in a dead Earth language. A large dog, its harness lying loose in the snow, crouches at her feet, its wet nose turned away from the cutting wind.

It is too cold for the animal to be outside. T'Pring drops a cafeteria token into the bowl between the dog's paws. Perhaps the woman will use it to take herself, and her pet, indoors.

Passing cadets move away from T'Pring, as she conducts permeability and impact resilience tests in the gutter. Melted water, mixed with slush and grime, splashes up to her shins but fails to penetrate the protective clothing. This is a satisfactory initial outcome.

As the students avoid her, T'Pring notices, they are also avoiding another cadet. He is underdressed for the weather, wearing shorts and sandals, and he has a number of large, hand-made signs with him. Some are propped against the wall, some lie on the ground, and one of them is attached to a long pole, apparently for ease of waving. The motion makes reading the closely-spaced lettering more difficult, but it also serves to instinctually draw the eye. A logical trade-off.

The man is also shouting.

As T'Pring draws closer, she begins to follow the general tenor of the man's exclamations. He seems to be promoting some sort of code of morality, or perhaps spreading information about historical events. A university is a logical choice of venue for either, but T'Pring does not understand the chosen method of disseminating information. It would have been more effective for the man to post a notice containing this information, or to have spoken to a professor about incorporating it into their curriculum. As it is, the man's behavior appears to be alienating his potential audience.

T'Pring conducts another brief trial of the clothing, then approaches the man to determine his purpose. "Live long and prosper," she greets him, offering the ta'al. She then adds "Good afternoon," because while no educated person would fail to recognize the Vulcan salute, it is nonetheless courteous to greet a stranger after their own customs.

"Yeah, hi," says the man, failing to give the appropriate response to either of her greetings. He also takes a step backwards with one foot, despite the fact that T'Pring has not come closer than the distance at which Terrans ordinarily converse.

"What information do you seek to disseminate?" T'Pring inquires. The man appears to be having trouble speaking, but gestures in the direction of one of his signs. The writing is easy to read, large, neatly colored black letters. AND AS IT IS APPOINTED UNTO MEN ONCE TO DIE BUT AFTER THIS THE JUDGEMENT.

"That is a sentence fragment," T'Pring observes.

"Ma'am, I'm gonna just ask you, have you ever sinned?" the man asks. He takes two steps forward. Perhaps he is from a culture where the designated radius of "personal space" is smaller.

"And that is a non-sequitur," says T'Pring, reprovingly. "Your debate skills appear to be below average, as do your oratorial abilities. Both of these faults will prove do be harmful in your chosen career. Are you aware that the university offers free remedial speech classes to students?"

"Well," says the man, raising his voice but failing to engage with T'Pring's statement, "I'm here to just tell you the good news, that your sin is washed away in the blood of Jesus Christ the Lamb of God!"

"I see," says T'Pring.

"...You do?" the man asks, after a moment.

"Yes. This is the information you are seeking to share?"

"This is the Good News of Jesus Christ, Ma'am," the man confirms, thumping the butt of of the pole on the ground.

"And yet you have failed to cite a reputable source, nor have you offered me any reproducible evidence of this claim. Moreover, you could logically conclude that, as a Vulcan, I was less likely than average to be aware of this information, and yet you failed to address me specifically and in fact attempted to avoid speaking to me. Your logic is flawed," T'Pring concludes firmly. "Amend it."

The man drops his sign, and backs off rapidly as though T'Pring had threatened to physically assault him. "I - I - I'm not the one who's jumping in puddles in the middle of winter, lady!" he shrieks, and abandons his post altogether.

"Zat vas _amazing_!" exclaims a cadet nearby. He has just come out from the onion-domed church next door, his uniform not yet touched by snow. By his voice, he is very young.

"It was merely a series of observations," T'Pring replies. "His emotional reaction was his own."

"No, no, you do not understand!" The boy rolls up on his toes and down again, almost bouncing in place. "Ve have been trying to get rid of him for _veeks!_ He is giwing all of us a bad reputation. For this, you must come inside, have a hot chocolate!" He reaches out as if to seize T'Pring's sleeve, then promptly thinks better of it and clasps his hands behind his back. His eyes are very wide.

"Thank you," says T'Pring, "I will."

It will be a fascinating cultural experience.


End file.
